


Poison

by Anonymous



Category: Choices: Hero (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Desk Sex, F/M, Loss of Virginity, it's fucked up because it's silas prescott what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-07-29 21:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16272920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Silas Prescott is a snake in the grass, and Alex doesn’t realize it until it’s too late.





	Poison

When Grayson starts taking a more active role in his father’s company, naturally Alex ends up going along for the ride as his assistant. It’s a slightly cushier job than the standard, it pays well, and it should go without saying that Grayson is as good of a boss as he is a friend. She knows she should be content with that.

And she is. Right?

But all of that gets upturned with that fateful gala, the Prism crystal, and the—there’s no other word for it—sheer _power_ coursing through her veins constantly, always pulsing and burning under her skin even when she’s doing nothing but breathing. It can’t be blocked out, not even in her sleep. Dealing with powers as a new superhero—Andromeda, that’s her alias, she still has to get used to it—is one thing, dealing with criminals who have them is another. But now?      

Poppy and Dax have been there for her every step of the way, but there’s only so much they can do—especially with their dancing around each other that Alex can’t exactly do anything about, even though she knows for a fact they’d be perfect for one another. Kenji and Eva have definitely surprised her, and she can’t help but wish she’d met them sooner, before this whole mess even started, just so she had more time to actually get to know them. And Grayson—

Her throat closes in on itself when she thinks about him, and she squeezes her eyes shut. She tries to ignore the burning behind her eyelids that feels too much like tears.

It’s only been three hours since her mother first told her who— _what_ —she really is. And it still doesn’t feel real, not even after she thought she was finally getting used to being able to lift cars and fly above skyscrapers. Everything in her wants to believe it was all a dream, a nightmare, that she didn’t really go to her mother’s apartment after all to demand answers. Because now that she has them, she can’t believe she ever wanted them to begin with.

 _I was alone in the lab one night, running tests, when something else came through the gate._ Rochelle’s voice still echoes in her head, growing fainter by the second.

Alex rolls over onto her back in bed with a groan, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. She’s memorized every inch of it at this point without actually taking in any of it, nausea still roiling in her stomach.

How could she not have seen something like this coming? She’d never given much thought to her birth parents because Rochelle had been the only mother she’d ever needed, the only parent she’d ever loved and been loved by. Back then, it hadn’t mattered to her that Rochelle would always change the topic on the rare occasion that she asked about where she was from or who her birth parents were. It hadn’t mattered that she’d never known or cared where she’d originally come from, because she had thought it didn’t matter.

But it does. It always has. And her own mother has kept that from her all these years, has kept her work for _Silas Prescott_ a secret all this time.

Alex wants to be furious about it, but the most she can muster is bitter resignation. She can’t blame her mother for wanting to protect her. Rochelle had been doing her best with what she had as a single mother, and she’d never relied on anyone but herself. She’d always been Alex’s role model because of that.

She can’t think like this, cooped up in her bed in her apartment that feels more and more cramped by the second. She has to get out and clear her head, or do _something,_ anything, just for a distraction. Like flying.   

When she sets off outside the apartment complex, careful to first check this time that no one else is around, she has to tamp down on the urge to fly back over to the clock tower to see Dax and Poppy. The idea of seeing either of them after what she’s just found out—she can’t even think about it. What would she even say?

They wouldn’t judge her, she knows that. They’re her friends. They’d still care about her, no matter what. But she can’t talk to them, not now, because she’s afraid (a _coward,_ her mind bitterly supplies).

She soars over the city, the unending glitz of numerous lights blurring below her as she glides in the air. She takes a deep, deep breath and lets it out, reveling in the crisp air filling her lungs and whipping through her dark hair. Here, up in the sky, she at least can feel free for a minute. There's only the question of what she’ll do when she comes back down.

When she sees the tall glass building of the Prescott Industries offices below, she lowers herself through the air and lands, softly, onto the sidewalk of the silent street behind a planted tree. Walking around where she works should be the farthest thing from her mind, but at this point, she’ll take anything to distract herself that doesn't involve anyone she knows—and she knows for a fact that Grayson’s usually asleep at home at this hour.

With a push of the clear door, Alex makes her way inside. The building is quiet, with only a few lights on. She stares around the grand, empty lobby without seeing it, the thump of her low-heeled ankle boots echoing against the polished marble floor as she walks with her arms tightly folded against her chest. Only one light is on, leaving the room dim and mostly shadowed.

Here is where she’d surprised Grayson at the gala when she’d shown up in the beautiful dress she'd borrowed from Poppy, where she and Grayson had almost kissed (she can't think about it, not now, but his lips had been so _close_ to touching hers, and of course they'd only pretended it didn't happen afterwards because they were both too afraid) before everything had gone out of control with the Prism. Here is where the masquerade ball had been, where almost everyone had been in masks and—

“Fancy seeing you here at this time of night, Alex.”

Her heart nearly jumps into her throat, pounding in her shock as she spins abruptly around and barely avoids stumbling. Right there is Silas Prescott, standing besides one of the tables on the deep red carpet, his back turned to her as he gazes out one of the vast windows.

Every hair on the back of her neck stands up, her body tensed in alarm as Poppy and Dax’s words flood back to her: the files that Dax had pulled up, the documents of Silas paying Shrapnel and his henchmen to steal the serum, his communications with Mayhew. The man standing in front of her is behind all the recent crime in Northbridge, and he did it to build himself an army of supers.

She’s right in front of a megalomaniac who wants to take over the city, and she can’t think of what to say. It’s almost funny, and she almost wants to laugh. But she still feels too numb to do even that.

At another time, maybe she would have gone right up to his office and smashed through the glass to demand answers. But now…

“I could say the same for you, Mr. Prescott,” Alex replies, surprising herself at how steady her voice sounds.

There’s a pause before Silas turns around to face her. In the dim lighting of the room, the crinkles around his eyes are even more visible than usual. “Touché. What brings you here, then? Something you forgot after work?”

“No,” Alex says automatically, before she immediately inwardly kicks herself. If she’d said yes, she’d at least have a plausible excuse for walking around Preston Industries in the dead of night well after work. “I, um, just…I needed a walk. To—to think about things.”

 _To “think about things”? Seriously? God, shut up,_ she internally groaned. This was why she’d never been able to get away with lying when she was younger.

To his credit, Silas at least seems to pretend to buy it. She doesn’t doubt for a second that he doesn’t actually believe her. “Ah, the classic midnight stroll,” he replies nonchalantly. “Yes, it does do some good. Any particular reason for it?”

“Uh…” _Think of something! Anything!_ “I just felt like it, I guess?”

“Fair enough.” Silas smiles at her, and Alex can’t tell this time whether it’s meant to be condescending or polite. “While we’re both out here for no reason tonight, I see no reason not to try making the most of it. Care for a drink?”  

Alex blinks once, twice. “I’m sorry?”

“A drink, Alex.” Now there’s no doubt that Silas’s expression drips condescension, his tone taking on the air of addressing someone particularly stupid or young. “Something that adults over the age of twenty-one enjoy together. You might have heard of it, I assume.”

“Yeah, I have.” Unable to repress her irritation, her answer comes out sharper and more curt than she meant it to. Normally she wouldn’t regret it, but this is—oh, god, she just back-talked the founder of Prescott Industries, the power-obsessed creep hell-bent on taking over the city. How stupid can she be?

But before she can internally kick herself again, Silas just chuckles softly. “Relax, Alex, I’m only teasing,” he replies, a noticeable lilt now in his voice. “Can I presume that's a yes?”

Alex stares at him, hoping her scrutiny isn’t obvious in her face. She’s known Grayson since college, graduation seems like a million years ago, and she still has no idea what to really make of Silas. Even without his uncovered plans to conquer Northbridge, she’s never _liked_ him because of how he treated Grayson. But her mother had taught her to see good in everyone and—well, there had to have been _some_ good in him, once, wasn’t there? She remembers how he’d apologized after the argument with Grayson, all the way back at the gala, mentioning how he and his wife had wanted so much for their son.  

And this is an opportunity, she realizes with a cold jolt. She can knock back a drink or two with him, get his guard down, make him feel cozy until she can accost him and get him to blab about his plans while he’s drunk. There’s even a Latin phrase for it, she remembers. _In vino veritas:_ In wine, truth.

Granted, getting him to confess his plans and using it as proof to turn over to the police would be hard without having her camera-built-in mask on. But she’d call Poppy and Dax once she got him inebriated.

Another memory surfaces, one that sounds distinctly like Rochelle warning her to stay away from Silas, but she tries to ignore it.

She clears her throat and puts on as best of a fake smile as she can manage. “Sure, Mr. Prescott. Lead the way.”

* * *

The first thing she notices about Silas’s office, right as they step into it, is that it is _big._ Big enough to be mistaken for its own floor entirely. It’s all marble and glass and polished wood, with a massive marble-topped desk and a vaulted ceiling hanging with lights in a set of layered deer antlers. It feels like the kind of room that one has to pay a million dollars just to stand in, everything so perfectly immaculate that it seems brand new. But it’s also surprisingly bare, as only a sleek silver wine cooler with a set of wine glasses on top of it and two small leather sofas with a coffee table are several steps away from the desk.

She’s only seen glimpses of the office, mostly when she was waiting outside in the hall while Grayson talked with Silas inside, but actually being in it is something else entirely.

“Like it?” Silas asks silkily, something like a smirk on his face at her expression. It’s then that Alex realizes her mouth is hanging open in awe and she immediately closes it, trying to ignore the embarrassed heat flaring up in her cheeks.

“It’s…very nice,” Alex manages, clasping her hands behind her back. “Very, uh, orderly.”

She has to focus, not be starstruck by a room. This is no different from a mission, she tells herself sharply.

“I’m glad you find it to your taste.” Silas sounds almost content, opening the cooler and pulling out an olive green bottle. Even that is polished to perfection with a sheen, gleaming under the office lights. He takes out the two glasses and sets them lightly on the coffee table, pouring a generous measure of crimson wine into each, and the morbid part of Alex’s mind notes how very much it resembles blood.

She gingerly sits down across from him on the leather sofa, picking up the glass as he does. The stem feels overly delicate in her hand, as if she can snap it with one little twitch of her fingers, but that may only be her paranoia talking. He doesn’t know she’s Andromeda, she reminds herself. He has no reason to think she has super strength, or any powers at all.

“A toast, then.” Silas lifts his glass against hers, meeting her eyes intently like a challenge. “To Prescott Industries, and its continued success for many years to come.”

He sounds like he’s daring her to disagree, to toast to something else. She doesn’t bite. “To Prescott Industries,” she agrees, and they both drink.

Alex is the farthest thing from an alcohol connoisseur, let alone wine, and she’s never been the biggest fan of it to begin with. But one small sip of this is enough to make her want more: sweet and tart without being overly saccharine, slightly dry with a pleasant tang to it and a flavor that reminds her of berries that she went picking with her mom one summer.

Her mom. Just thinking of her alone is enough to bring Alex back to reality, keeping her sober after she’s downed the whole glass. She watches Silas as he sips from his own glass, a coldness settling into her stomach.

He’d worked with her mother, once. They’d been friends. How could he have strayed so far from that, enough to alienate Rochelle and his own son? What could have happened, Alex wonders, to change him that deeply?

“Is there something on my face?”

Alex nearly fumbles with her glass. “What?”

The corners of Silas’s eyes crinkle up again, and Alex can’t decide whether that’s good or bad. “You’ve been staring at me for about a minute straight, now. I was wondering if you were just too nervous to say something.”

“Oh.” Alex gives a forced cough and sets her glass down onto the table, next to his. “No, it’s just…I was thinking again, I guess.”

“The world would certainly be better off if more people did that,” Silas deadpans, and Alex has to stifle a giggle. Wait, did she just _laugh_ at something Silas Prescott said?

It’s just the wine, she tells herself. She’s not a lightweight, but knowing Silas, this has to be premium-quality wine capable of getting anyone drunk immediately from how good it is or something.

“You’re not wrong,” she murmurs, cracking a small grin. It’s going to be a while before she gets anything out of him, but she’ll just have to bide her time.

“I’m never wrong, Alex,” Silas returns smoothly. He lifts the bottle. “More wine?”

* * *

It starts off with one more glass, and another. Then the next, and the next after that, and another until Alex is gasping for breath from hysterical laughter at yet another of Silas’s grandiose stories about his trips, so buzzed from the wine that she can hardly think.

“—and that was when Everett told me, ‘That’s not a fox, that’s a dog with a bad paint job!’” Silas roars with laughter as if he’s told the world’s greatest joke, slapping his knee and knocking over the now near-empty bottle. It topples instantly off of the table, hitting the floor with a loud clatter and rolling away.

“That Ever—Everett Rourke sure sounds… _fun,”_ Alex snickers childishly, idly pushing her drained glass back and forth across the table before she flops back against the sofa. Her floral jacket is long discarded at this point, left in a crumpled heap next to her.  “And that really was the last time you saw him again?”

“Oh, yes.” Silas nods his head in a mockingly sage-like manner, cracking another chuckle. “He was certainly an interesting character, but all good things come to an end. La Huerta was lovely—more than lovely, it was incredible, but God knows what plans he has in store for it right now.”

He pauses and there’s a faraway look in his eyes, his smile fading. “It was incredible,” he repeats, a note of awe in his voice. “A paradise on Earth, that’s what it was. And Helena loved it.”

 _Helena._ Something in Alex’s mind stirs at that name, scrambling for memory at first until it hits her with the same effect as a bucket of ice water. _Helena Prescott._

Silas’s wife, Grayson’s mother, the brilliant archaeologist. The one who’d died and left a rift in the Prescott family ever since, that neither man speaks of often because of the lingering pain of her loss.

That Silas, of all people, is now talking about her should be important. As far as Alex knows, Silas hardly speaks about his wife with anyone—not even his own son, because he became distant from him after she died. Mentioning her is one thing, but actually talking about her, as she was in life...

“What was she like?” Maybe it’s the alcohol getting to her or her impatience to get Silas talking catching up with her, or some combination of both, but the words tumble from her before she can stop them.

Silas is silent for what feels like an hour, looking out the window. When he looks back at her, there’s a flicker of something indecipherable in his constantly narrow eyes (so cold, so like and yet unlike—).

“She was smart.” His voice is eerily quiet, each word carefully spoken, and he never looks away from her the whole time. “Smarter than me, if I want to be honest. She was kind, generous with her time, and even more generous with her money. She was braver than anyone else, always looking for adventure, poking her nose where it didn’t belong.”

Alex finds herself hanging on every word as if hypnotized, forcing her fogged over brain to concentrate on his voice because she’s not so drunk that she doesn’t know the magnitude of what Silas talking to her about his wife means. But there’s something else pricking at her thoughts to contradict it, a memory stinging at the back of her head. A warning. She can’t concentrate on it now, in the haze of Silas’s voice as he reminisces in front of her and a pair of empty wine glasses.

“And she was beautiful,” Silas goes on, his voice now becoming reverent. “More beautiful than any other woman I’d ever seen. I knew she was the one when I heard her talk for the first time.”

Has Silas always been this close? He’s been sitting across from her at the table ever since they first sat down, but he leans forward a little as he speaks. His breath is heady with the scent of wine, not entirely unpleasant, and his eyes look so much colder, flat and almost gray like cracked ice. Alex feels paralyzed as he stares at her, and she briefly wonders if this is how a bird feels when a cat watches it.

“In fact,” Silas continues, his voice dropping to the lowest murmur she’s ever heard it, “she was a little like you, Alex.”

Before she can ask what that means, before she can get her throat to work, Silas Prescott leans in completely and kisses her.

Any thought she had before falls away with the slide of his lips against hers. His mouth is surprisingly soft, smooth like she'd always imagined Grayson's—but she cuts that thought off before it can even start—and it tastes sweet like the wine, the scruff of his beard rasping against her chin and his hand cradling the back of her head to pull her in closer. It’s only when the realization kicks in—that _Silas Prescott is kissing her_ —that she breaks away with a gasp, her eyes still wide and blinking hard.

Silas regards her coolly, the look on his face unreadable. Alex has to gulp down a deep breath before she can say anything, her mind reeling and up the wall.

“You—you—” she gasped.

“Yes, I kissed you,” Silas finishes for her curtly. He rises to his feet, surprisingly steadily for a man who’s been drinking wine with her for at least an hour, and saunters around the table to lean in again, holding her face in his hands. He lifts her chin, his mouth lowering as he presses a kiss against her throat, then another, and another until she’s gasping again, scrabbling weakly at his shoulders, as he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

She opens her mouth to say yes, that this is wrong, that there’s _so many_ things wrong with this and that she can’t do it and she shouldn’t, she _wouldn’t._ But all that comes out instead is a ragged moan, and his beard brushes against the skin of her throat as he starts to nip at her neck instead, his tongue flicking out and making her shudder.

It’s so nice, she thinks foggily, that Silas wants her even though she’s not his wife, that she’ll never be Helena, that she _can’t_ be because Helena was a human and she’s not. So nice of him to think he’s like her at all.   

She tilts her head back and his hands find her waist, hoisting her until she’s straddling his lap. He alternates between kissing and nipping at her throat, and she gives a breathy groan at the sensation of his teeth grazing her skin, hard enough to bite if he wants to. One of his hands roams over her ass, cupping and squeezing it as the other slides up her shirt.

The touch of his calloused fingers alternately pinching and stroking the skin of her stomach, easing up across her chest and under her plain white bra to toy with her nipples until she’s whimpering into his mouth, feels horribly searing as much as it feels wonderful. She’s humiliatingly desperate for more of it, grinding her hips down against his with a breathy keen as her bra pushes up over her chest with her shirt, her nipples tight and hardening to the air.

Silas’s teeth show in a predatory smile, and Alex has never felt more self-conscious as his eyes rove over her appreciatively. “So _lovely,”_ he breathes quietly, lowering his head, and she can’t stifle the resulting cry as his tongue laves over her nipple, teasing and licking at it mercilessly until she’s actually writhing, too lost to the burn of his touch and his hands gripping her hard enough to leave bruises to be embarrassed at how oversensitive she is.

Her fingers find his mane of hair, clutching at and running through unkempt strands of graying brown as he moves his attentions to her other nipple, then back to her throat as he licks and presses a trail of kisses to her skin. When his thumb finds the waistband of her pants, the rest of his hand slipping in, her body gives a jolt of surprise. Something close to clarity, if only for a moment, hits with the frantic thumping of her heart.

“What’re—” she gasps out.

“Shhh.” His fingers push in deeper, pressing between her legs as his other hand tugs at her jeans. But with her sitting on his lap on a couch built to hold only a few sitting side by side, it’s awkward enough as it is, and instead he hoists her up, her legs wrapped around his waist, and starts to _walk,_ miraculously keeping her up in the air as she clumsily holds on.

“W-wait, why’re we—” she begins.

There’s only a low chuckle from in response, right into her ear, and she can’t repress a shiver. “The couch isn’t the best place for this. I’m afraid this’ll have to do.”

Alex makes an undignified squeaking sound as he sets her against the desk, her back meeting the perfectly smooth and gleaming marble with a thud. Silas looms over her like a spectre, the look in his eyes ravenous and burning in its intensity. She can only feel completely naked under it, vulnerable in every sense of the word as he pushes her legs apart and gives a few tugs at her jeans until they slip, panties and all, past her knees and off around her shoe-clad feet.

She hardly hears them hit the floor, however, because his fingers push inside her the instant that they do and she has to stifle a shriek as he pumps his hand back and forth, thumb rubbing at her clit. Two, then three, alternating as his fingers sloppily move in and out. She scrabbles at the surface of the desk for something to hold on to, tilting her head back as she listens to her own cries and moans as her hips roll downwards to meet his hand.

“Oh— _o-oh—”_ She doesn’t realize her eyes are closing until Silas grabs her chin, forcing her to face him so closely that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth.  

 _“Look at me."_ It’s an order, hissed through his teeth, and it’s terrifyingly easy to obey. His eyes are wild, pupils dilating, taking in every inch of her as if she’ll disappear the moment he blinks. In perfect sync, he _shoves_ his fingers harder into her and she can’t stop the resulting scream, hips jerking so hard her back actually bows off of the desk. His free hand snakes around to support her, rubbing circles against her skin as her body trembles.

So close, she’s so _close,_ and that’s the moment when he withdraws his fingers, leaving her empty and straining hopelessly for release and she whines, actually _whines._ She feels as tight and taut as a string about to break, everything in her aching and senseless, her chest heaving under her pushed up bra and shirt, her hair starting to plaster to her cheeks and neck.

Silas only smiles down at her, giving the same coolly condescending smile from earlier with a new edge to it. “So needy,” he murmurs, and she doesn’t have a chance to retort because her world is instantly upside down, flipping with her as his hands turn her over, pushing her down on the desk until her stomach lies against the smooth marble instead and she’s _bent over it._

It’s at that second that something finally prickles at her mind, like light through a cloud, and her heart stutters so hard she thinks it might actually stop. She was just kissing Silas Prescott. She was finger-fucked by Silas Prescott. _Silas Prescott._ And now she’s about to—

There’s another reason she came here. But all thoughts of what it is are swept away by the click of a belt being undone and the slide of flesh on flesh as his cock nudges up against her, rubbing onto her slit, and she can’t stifle her gasp.

“You’ve never done this before, have you?” His voice is a growl in her ear, and she shudders. He pushes away part of her hair with a hand, pressing a kiss to the back of her neck.

Was she that obviously inexperienced? “N-no,” she mutters self-consciously, now ridiculously grateful that he can’t see her face from behind.

But Alex has the distinct sense that Silas is smiling again behind her. “Good,” he answers quietly, and the one word bleeds satisfaction.  

He settles against her back, and that’s all the warning she gets before he pushes in, his cock pressing harder and further into her until he’s _inside_ her and all that comes out of her is a strangled gasp. All the air is gone from her lungs, her mouth hanging open at the sheer burn of the feeling of being so completely, so utterly filled, everything in her tight and sensitive to every part of the hurt and the pleasure.

She can’t make another sound, not even another gasp as she claws helplessly at the desk. But Silas starts _moving_ inside her, hands squeezing her hips as he pulls out and slides back in, once, twice, again and again until she can’t hold back the scream. It echoes in the office over the obscene sounds of skin smacking against skin, his hips slapping against her ass as he pumps his cock in and out, and faintly she wonders if it’s loud enough for anyone to hear.

For one wild moment, she wonders if she’d mind if anyone did.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he grunts into her ear, punctuating his words with an even harder thrust that leaves her choking on a scream. “You’ve always wanted it. You want _me.”_

The force of every thrust, each harsher and rougher than the last, drags her back and forth across the desk. She squeezes her eyes shut, her mouth hanging listlessly open as she whimpers and whines, unable to muster anything coherent.

“Say it,” Silas commands, and his hand winds into her hair, giving an abrupt yank that pulls her head back with a sharp gasp of pain. Her eyes start to water as he tugs at it, his grip like iron as he pounds ruthlessly into her, the fabric of his suit starting to rub against her back. “You want this. You want me. _Say it.”_

She can’t hold out like this. “I—I— _please_ —”

He thrusts into her hard enough for her to see stars behind her eyes, her breathing growing so hard and ragged she can feel her throat start to burn, and his voice is a snarl. _“Now.”_

“I want this,” Alex tries to say clearly, but it comes out as a barely worded moan. She claws again at the desk, her fingernails digging so hard that they’d leave marks on it if it were anything but marble. “I-I want this, please, Si— _Sil_ —"

But if she keeps her eyes closed, for a fleeting second she can imagine it's someone else inside her, someone else fucking her. She shudders and her voice cracks.  _"Grayson—"_

Silas kisses her neck again, his beard brushing against her skin. “Of course, _Helena.”_

He breathes the last word like a prayer and her eyes shoot open, an involuntarily massive jolt overtaking her. But it’s enough for him because he’s fucking into her even harder, another thrust and then another, giving a final yank and twist of her hair until she’s writhing and crying out as her hips convulse.

She comes so hard with a scream that she actually sees black for seconds, her entire vision swimming in front of her as she bucks and shudders on top of the desk and her toes curl in her shoes. Silas gives a long groan behind her that turns into a roar as he comes in turn, filling her as come trickles down her thighs.

The drip of come inside her and on her skin is what starts the break through the haze, like a gradual wake-up from a nightmare. Silence sets in by the second, broken only by panting. Silas lays on top of her and Alex groans, trying to blink disorientation from her eyes.

He lets out a low, low little chuckle. “We’ve made quite the mess, haven’t we?” he asks far too calmly. “Well, I’ll clean up. Let’s get you home, Alex.”

The next several minutes pass in a blur, of her wobbling to her feet and pulling her shirt back down and getting back her discarded jeans and underwear and jacket, of Silas wiping away the mess with a spontaneous rag in his pocket, of Silas walking her out the door. They get into his car, and she has the faintest sensation of more expensive leather at her back as she sits in the passenger seat.

He doesn't say a word to her the whole drive, and she's oddly thankful for it. But every now and then, she senses him looking at her. 

It's only when they stop at her apartment that he says anything. She wobbles as she opens the door, stumbling, and he catches her before she does. His hands feel hot and heavy on her arms, pulling her to her feet. When she looks up at him, in the darkness, he looks so much like a weathered and aged Grayson that her heart almost stops.

His expression is inscrutable. "Good night, Alex," he says softly. "Say hello to your mother for me."

"Good night, sir," she somehow mumbles, but that's enough for him. He smiles thinly at her with a strange glint in his eye and turns away, stepping back into his overpriced car, and she stares after it as it vanishes back into the streets. Slowly, her feet move her through the door and up to her apartment in the building.

It’s not until she wakes up later, in her still rumpled bed, that the horror sinks in.  

**Author's Note:**

> Originally I wrote over 13k of this, but it went on the cutting room floor. Might post the "expanded" original version of this (with some added scenes) if I feel like it later. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
